


As There's Always Been the Burning

by stardropdream



Category: xxxHoLic
Genre: Multi, Replacement sex, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:15:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watanuki and Himawari can only meet once a year, but once a year is not nearly enough. Doumeki acts as "messenger". </p><p><b>Pairing: </b>Wata/Hima by way of Hima to Doumeki, and  Watanuki to Doumeki, also probably one fucked up Doumeki/Watanuki/Himawari</p>
            </blockquote>





	As There's Always Been the Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ August 25, 2011. 
> 
> This is also a palindrome, kind of. That is, the starting from the middle mark, the fic can be read the same backwards and forwards.

“Sometimes, I think I’ll try so hard to be strong that I’ll just break,” she says.  
  
Doumeki fingers thread in her hair, just the way that Watanuki would. She tilts her head to the side and kisses his wrist—not necessarily in the way she would kiss Watanuki’s wrist, but close enough, because she feels she must thank Doumeki, all the same.  
  
“You won’t,” he says, his voice soft and deep, “We won’t let you.”  
  
She traces the line of his jaw, her fingers allowed free reign over his body, without fear of withering, of dying, of falling, of breaking. Her fingertips ghost along his body, haunt every line and dip of his muscles and his aching bones.  
  
She arches up and kisses him, her breath feather-soft.  
  
“You know, if I could do anything with him… do you know what I would want?” she asks.  
  
He doesn’t answer, and instead draws her away from his body—naked, flushed, resting on the bed, way up north and at university—and collects her hair into his hands and drapes them over her shoulder, showering over to cover the curve of her breasts. He leans, and she shifts, understanding his wordless descent and understanding that he understood her—she turns, reveals the slope of her back, where the angry red scars drag down her body.  
  
Doumeki’s lips trace over the crooked lines and her breath comes out in a flutter.  
  
“What else?” he asks.  
  
“Then he’d…” She takes his hands, drags them up over her stomach and to her breasts. He cups them, holding them in his hands. She closes her eyes and bites her lip.  
  
He follows the steps she dictates, showing him what Watanuki would do if he could, what she’d want him to do if he could—and she reciprocates, showing on Doumeki’s body just what she’d do to Watanuki. She pushes Doumeki down, straddles him, removes his shirt like it’s a well-made kimono instead, kisses the bridge of his nose as if there are marks from glasses pressed into the sides of his nose.  
  
Doumeki, for his part, is silent as she does this, allows himself to act as the blank page, filling with hidden words and messages not meant for him but meant for another to read. His hands move as Himawari instructs—curls over her hips, slides over the back of her thighs, follows the ridge of her spine, the spike of her shoulder blades, the slope of her neck. When her breathing comes fast, he arches up and takes her mouth with his, kisses her quiet.  
  
And the next morning, Doumeki wakes with her in his arms and allows himself to be foolishly self-indulgent and lie there in the bed with her longer than either of them should have remained in it. She cuddles up to him, sleepily, and it’s achingly different than how she behaves in wakefulness—so guarded, so reserved—here she is pleasantly—achingly—unrestrained. She cuddles to him and slowly the cuddles turn into simple strokes of his fingertips along the ridges of her ribs, the dip of her belly button, then they become caresses of her inner thigh and the round of her breasts. The caresses and closeness then turns into more than caresses, turn into open-mouthed kisses and hot gasping breaths as Doumeki’s fingers press into Himawari’s body with practiced ease and he shows her, for half a moment, what _he_ himself, not he as Watanuki, would do to her if he could.  
  
And Himawari lets him, eyes wide and mouth swollen red and open from his kisses, and every nerve-ending is alive and she’s shivering, crying out his name softly against his neck as she lays down sloppy kisses as he makes a jerky rhyme into her with just his fingers.  
  
And she has to still herself and gasp for breath as Doumeki groans and rocks anxiously under her but leaves his fingers still, rubbing at Himawari’s hip with his other hand and slowly curling upward to grasp the swell of her breast, thumb flickering over her nipple. Himawari’s eyes blink and she waits for her vision to clear and her throat to open so that she can move again, can feel Doumeki’s fingers moving inside her without shattering or breaking down. She rides Doumeki then, selfishly, snapping her hips up and down onto his hand, taking him deep inside her—so deep that it stings and hurts, and she’s selfish because she wants to feel that pain echoing deep inside her, feel the touch and pleasure and pain long after he is gone and away from her side. She thinks this even as Doumeki’s body arches under her and he mumbles out a few words of pleasure and concern and she shushes him with a small smile and a plea to have this moment, before it all disappears again.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
Watanuki is quiet above him, as if he will disappear all over again, even as he shush Doumeki with a smile that isn’t meant for him, but one of pleasure and concern for a girl who isn’t arching beneath him. There’s a pain echoing deep inside of Doumeki, it stings and it hurts as Watanuki’s fingers snap up inside him, deep inside him. Doumeki blinks, waiting for his vision to clear and his throat remains stubbornly closed even though by this time Himawari would be moaning, a shattering and breaking gasp. Watanuki groans and rocks anxiously over him, but leaves his fingers still, rubbing at Doumeki’s hip as if he is Himawari, hand drifting upward as if to grasp a breast that isn’t there and this time Doumeki does stifle a gasp, just as she would.  
  
And Doumeki lets Watanuki do this, mouth slightly parted and every nerve-ending alive and shivering arching up to kiss Watanuki’s neck and Watanuki doesn’t completely respond as he resumes the movement of his fingers.  
  
The more than caresses turn into a practiced caressing, a closeness punctuated with open-mouthed kisses and hot gasping breaths as Watanuki continues to move his fingers, then moves his hips, and for half a moment Doumeki does not act as Himawari would but rather himself and he grunts harder than he’d meant to. Watanuki’s fingers move along Doumeki’s inner thighs and chest with a lightness meant for Himawari, not him, and slowly it traces his belly button and his ribs as Doumeki obediently cuddles to him. His body is restrained, reserved, guarded—his body is hers, for Watanuki. Watanuki moves with his arms around Doumeki and Doumeki allows himself to be foolishly self-indulgent and hold onto him, hands splayed across his back until the next morning comes.  
  
When Doumeki’s breath comes fast, he arches up and takes Watanuki’s mouth with his, kisses them both quiet. Watanuki’s hands move as Himawari instructed they should, curls over Doumeki’s hips, slides over the back of his thighs, follows the ridge of his spine, the spike of his shoulder blades, the slope of his neck. Doumeki, for his part, is silent as he does this, allows himself to fulfill the instructions written across that blank page—executes the hidden words and messages meant for Watanuki only.  
  
Doumeki does as Himawari does—pushes Watanuki down and straddles him, removes his kimono, kisses the bridge of his nose where his glasses have pressed marks into the sides of his nose. Doumeki reciprocates Himawari’s actions, shows on Watanuki’s body just what she’d do to him if she could—he follows the steps she dictates, showing Watanuki what she would do if she could, what she’d want him to do to her.  
  
He closes his eyes and bites his lip for half a second. He cups Watanuki’s hands, holding them close. He drags them over his stomach and chest. “Then she’d want…”  
  
“What else?” Watanuki asks.  
  
Doumeki remembers the lips tracing over the crooked lines of scars and his breath almost comes out in a flutter.  
  
He turns, reveals the slope of his back, where the angry red scars would drag down her body. Watanuki leans forward, and Doumeki shifts, both understanding the wordless descent and understanding that he understood and that she—Doumeki can picture collecting Himawari’s hair into his hands and draping them over one shoulder, covering the swell of one breast—way up north and at university—the way she laid naked, flushed, resting on the bed. Doumeki draws himself away from Watanuki’s body.  
  
“If she could do anything with you, this is what she would want,” he says.  
  
Watanuki simply arches up and kisses Doumeki’s back, his breath feather-soft.  
  
Watanuki’s fingertips ghost along Doumeki’s body, haunt every line and dip of his muscles and his aching bones. There’s no fear of withering, of dying, of falling, of breaking—it’s a free reign over his (her) body, and there are fingers tracing the line of his jaw, too masculine to be hers so they quickly drop away.  
  
 _We won’t let you,_ he told her, his voice soft and deep. _You won’t break._  
  
Doumeki takes Watanuki’s wrist and kisses it like he would, not as Himawari would. He tils his head to the side and kisses his wrist. He turns and threads his fingers in Watanuki’s hair for half a moment, and Watanuki gives him that indulgent smile that isn’t meant for him.  
  
Sometimes, Doumeki’s certain that if he continues to try this hard, he’s the one that will break instead.


End file.
